


Not Objects

by bluesthour (UnderTheRedHood)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Allison, Angst, F/M, Sad!Isaac, hurt!Isaac
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 12:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4746299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderTheRedHood/pseuds/bluesthour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Allison notices a few things about Isaac during his panic attack.  Set in Season 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Objects

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning: mentions of past child abuse.

Isaac opened his eyes, his breath heavy against his chest, the air seeming harder and harder to reach with each intake of his lungs.  Allison watched as the expressions ran across his face, first terror then determination to stay in control and then terror again.  She had seen a lot in her seventeen years, a lot of fear and a lot of anger, and yet she couldn’t recount ever watching something so heartbreaking as Isaac Lahey during a panic attack.

There was just something about him, something inherently good deep down.  It wasn’t like Scott, either.  Scott was good but he wore it in his smile, in his gait, in the tone of his voice.  Everybody loved Scott’s goodness, and Allison figured he knew it too.  Isaac wasn’t like that-- if he knew how good he was, he was ashamed of it; furthermore, it wasn’t so obvious, it was clouded under the anxiety and fear that had ruled Isaac’s life since he was a child.

People don’t often realize how hard it is to be afraid all the time, to be ruled by an anxiety that you know you will always have-- an anxiety that you carry with you, engraved so deep in your veins that you just want to rip yourself apart to get it out.

Isaac felt that way.  He wished he could rip the trauma out of him.  He never told anybody this, but sometimes as a kid, during the beatings, he’d imagine that his father really did love him too much.  So much that he was willing to tear his own son apart to get the broken pieces out.

 _Was I born broken?_   Isaac had always meant to ask.  He didn’t know which answer would be worse.

If he had asked Allison, she would’ve held her finger to his trembling lips and wrapped her arm over his shoulder, leaning in to whisper, “people aren’t objects.  You can’t break a person.  Especially not you-- you’re too strong to be broken.”

And Isaac would’ve tried to smile back but it would’ve come out dull, like it had been bit back too many times, hidden under his lips with water in his eyes.  He would’ve murmured, “Allison,” as though her name itself was healing.  And even though his hands would be trembling and his voice would be shaking, and his eyes would look dark and hollowed, Allison would see that the panic was melting, even if just a little.


End file.
